A Jumbled Mess
by starrysummernights
Summary: John stares at the little blue line in utter disbelief. His mind is jammed, unable to comprehend what he's seeing right in front of him. He feels sick. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears, feel his heart trying to beat out of his chest and the entire room tilts ever so slightly to the left as his entire world changes in the blink of an eye.
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome to the latest installment of my Johnlock Omegaverse series! This story deals with themes of mpreg (never thought I'd be writing that, but there you are) and if that isn't your cup of tea- no worries :D I'll see you next time I update another story!**

**This story will be 2 chapters and the next one will be up in 2 weeks :)**

**Enjoy!  
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* * *

John stares at the little blue line in utter disbelief. His mind is jammed, unable to comprehend what he's seeing right in front of him.

He feels sick. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears, feel his heart trying to beat out of his chest and the entire room tilts ever so slightly to the left as his entire world changes in the blink of an eye.

This isn't happening. There's no way it's happening. Not to him.

But the proof it _is_ happening- to him of all people- is staring him right in the face, contained in the small little home pregnancy test which proudly touts it's 99% effective, able to detect the pregnancy hormone in Omegas up to three weeks before their next heat.

_Oh god._

Time seems to slow down, everything turning fuzzy and vague. John's knees feel weak, as if they're about to give out from underneath him, and he gropes behind him, sitting down on the closed toilet lit with a jolt.

The test is wrong. It's a false positive, it has to be. John's heard those are fairly common with home pregnancy tests. They're unreliable. He's done the test wrong. His was probably defective. Who knows how long it was sitting on the shelf of the corner store before he bought it? He shouldn't have even taken it in the first place, should have _known_ he wouldn't be able to trust the results, but he'd been worried and didn't want to get caught doing his own blood test at the surgery.

Besides, it has to be wrong because he's been taking contraception since he was 18 and he's never- not once- missed a dose. He's been meticulous, even a bit obsessive with it…but only because he didn't want to go through this very goddamn, fucking scenario.

The little blue line is still staring up at John, not going away no matter how hard he tries to rationalize and reason it away. It's bold and loud in it's proclamation. Taunting him.

John angrily chucks the little piece of plastic across the loo. It hits the wall opposite and clatters loudly to the floor, rattling against the tiles as it skids under the bath. John grimaces, standing and bracing himself on the sink with trembling arms, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looks angry and shocked- jaw clenched tight, lips thinned down and pressed together, nostrils flared as he struggles to breathe, eyes wide and anxious.

This _can't_ be happening. He doesn't want this. He's _never_ wanted this. He wants to go back in time and somehow prevent it from happening. It's irrational- not possible, he doesn't even know what mistake he made for this to happen- but it doesn't stop him from desperately wishing.

And what's worse, beneath the panic and anxiety, is a small frisson of _pleasure_. The part of John that is wholly Omega, the part he has little control over, is pleased, practically _purrs_ over the proof of just how incredibly virile his Alpha is, that he managed to get him pregnant despite the contraception. It makes John's skin flush, prickle in unwanted arousal, and it's not until he glances back in the mirror again that he realizes he's instinctively tilting his head to the side, baring his bond bite as the feelings surge through him.

A nasty, insidious voice whispers in John's ear that he's been _bred_.

John turns and heaves into the toilet, nausea rising up so powerfully and quick he barely manages to lift the lid in time. He empties his stomach of everything he's eaten that morning while he was faking lighthearted small talk with Sherlock over the breakfast table as he waited, on tenterhooks, for Sherlock to leave so he could take the test. It'd felt like an unexploded bomb, hidden in his sock drawer, and he's still surprised he managed to keep this a secret from Sherlock, that Sherlock didn't realize something was off. He hadn't, had behaved as normal and kissed John as he left. As soon as Sherlock had closed the front door, John had shoved away from the table and almost sprinted to their bedroom, rifling quickly through his socks and, clutching the test, locked himself in the loo.

John crumples to his knees, gripping the sides of the porcelain bowl with a white-knuckled grip, and retches over and over, until there's nothing left and he's dry heaving.

"_Oh, Jesus_." John groans and immediately claps a restraining hand over his mouth. His voice is all wrong, weak and thready and bleating, pathetic and choked in shock and fear. He never wants to hear his voice sound that way again. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the innocuous white test, lying innocently under the bath, and bile rises at the back of his throat. He chokes, gagging again until his eyes are watery and he's gasping for air, his head pounding from the pressure of repeated, forceful vomiting.

Finally, the nausea subsides and John, weak and shaky, takes a few tremulous inhales, wiping his mouth with a nearby towel. He nearly loses it again when he realizes it's _Sherlock's_ towel he's using and the overwhelming smell of his Alpha invades his nostrils. He wants to sit on the bathroom floor, hold the towel to his nose, and just breathe in the smell all day until Sherlock gets back. The smell is calming and means safety and the reaction in John's body at the scent is visceral. It's so unlike him, so unlike anything he would ever do, that John retches again.

It's the hormones, the little voice in his head whispers. It's his changing hormones manipulating him and his emotions and reactions. It's the reason he acted so unusually possessive over Sherlock last week at Scotland Yard. It's the reason he's been incredibly randy the past few weeks. The reason he's been wanting to clean the flat- actually craving to straighten things up- and yet feeling so tired he doesn't want to start. The reason he's been having such bad cramps for seemingly no reason at all, headaches that won't go away, and now an increased reaction to smells.

_Oh, god._ This is really happening.

The walls of the little loo are closing in on him. He has to get out of the flat, John decides, determinedly tossing the towel away and pretending not to feel the pang of regret that spears through him as it sails away from him, crumpling in the far corner. He needs air. Fresh air. Some space to think. He can barely function over the hum of panic trickling through his body, making him jittery and anxious.

He flushes the toilet, quickly wipes everything down, and does his best to conceal any evidence Sherlock may observe of how he's spent his morning. He's not ready to tell Sherlock yet. The very idea makes John's skin crawl and misplaced shame pool in his gut. He hides the little plastic test with shaking hands, burying it as deeply as he can in the bin and then tossing a few extra things in on top of it to make the whole thing appear more natural. Nothing suspicious or attention-grabbing.

John tugs on his jacket, his body functioning on auto-pilot, and clatters down the stairs on legs that feel as if they're about to give out at any second. He's thankful- incredibly thankful- that Mrs. Hudson doesn't materialize from her flat, beaming and happy and asking questions and wanting to know what's wrong. He doesn't think he'd be able to fake being polite right now.

He jerks open the front door and the fresh air hits him like a slap in the face, refreshingly clean and cold, and clears away some of the buzzing terror from his head. It's easier to breathe, as if the weight on his chest has somehow shifted, gotten lighter, and he takes deep breaths, huffing. He strides down the sidewalk as fast as he can, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, unsure where he's going but wanting to put as much distance between himself and the flat and the little blue line as possible.

John's first thought is to go to his usual when he leaves the flat in high dudgeon- the pub down the corner. It's late enough in the morning. He could text Greg to meet him there for lunch and they'd share a meal and a pint or two-

Then John remembers he might be pregnant and he shouldn't have alcohol and the idea is so shocking he stops walking, freezing right in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone bumps into him from behind, snarling in irritation as they shove past his motionless form and stride off, muttering about inconsiderate people.

John blinks, glancing around him, eyes flicking guiltily up at the tops of the buildings, looking for CCTV cameras, and resumes walking at a slower pace than before, his mind churning.

Everyone- friends, colleagues, Mrs. Hudson, and random strangers- always assumes he wants children. That because he's good with the occasional child at crime scenes and enjoys playing for a few minutes at a time with friend's children, that he secretly longs for them, wants oodles of them running around the flat.

"_Oh, you're so good with him." _

"_How sweet! He really likes you!"_

"_You're so nurturing- you'd make a wonderful father."_

It's all bollocks. John knows he'd be a _horrible_ father.

How could he not be? He doesn't seem to have the "normal" drives of an Omega to procreate and nurture and protect. He's never craved children, never made up fantasies of having a house and an Alpha and a lots of children. He's enjoyed babysitting for his friends but he's always relieved to see the little buggers go back to their parents at the end of a few hours. He's never sighed longingly after them, never seen himself in the role of father with anything other than a snort of derision and a thankfulness that he was smarter than all that.

He has a terrible temper. More than once he's shouted or snapped at Sherlock for no good reason- or well, not a good _enough_ reason when one looks back at it- and had to apologize. He's not patient. He seeks adrenaline and, as Sherlock has pointed out on more than one occasion, he's a bit of a thrill-seeker.

John turns onto the familiar path to the park, trudging down the paved trail towards the water and trying his best to avoid mad cyclists who insist on zooming past him as if they own the park.

Their whole life will have to change. Sherlock would never want a tiny human running around their flat, messing up his experiments and demanding time and attention. The thought makes John's mood, already depressed, take a nosedive. Sherlock will respect any decision he makes, of course, but John can just see his face, brow creased with worry and eyes shadowed.

"You want to do this. You're sure?" He'll ask, his own wishes writ plain on his face but he'll abide by what John says. He'll try. What if Sherlock ends up resenting him? What if John eventually resents Sherlock? What if it doesn't work out?

What if…?

John grits his teeth, forcing himself to stop right there with his useless thoughts as he sits down on a park bench near the lake. He watches people meander past him, trying to distract himself from the anxiety that sits like a stone on his chest. There's no use in getting worked up and agitated just yet, he sternly tells himself, scrubbing a hand over his forehead, a headache feeling as if it's splitting his skull in two. He may not even be…that. He needs a second opinion. An over-the-counter home pregnancy test isn't the best way to be sure about it.

John takes a deep breath, fisting his hands in his pockets, and leans his head back, letting the sun warm his face. He's not going to worry about this. Not right now. He's going to sit here, listen to the sounds of people enjoying a nice, crisp day and relax. Maybe he'll get a cup of coffee from a vendor in another hour. But he above all won't panic.

Not yet.

* * *

Sherlock peeks around the door to the flat, ascertaining John's gone, before stepping inside, a red ice chest tucked under his arm. He quickly moves to the kitchen and shifts things around in their freezer, carefully tucking his ice chest in the very back of the freezer, stacking bags of frozen peas and corn in front of it. He stands back and critically stares at it, making sure John won't be able to see where its hidden from any angle, before nodding, satisfied. He shuts the door and turns to take off his coat…when he sees John's cup of tea, cold and abandoned, only half drunk, sitting on the kitchen table.

The sight brings Sherlock up short. John always finishes his tea. And if he hadn't finished it, he would have dumped it and washed the cup. Sherlock has been on the receiving end of John's 'cleanliness' lectures often enough to know how fastidious John is about these sorts of things. He wouldn't have just _left_ the cup there.

Heart beating faster than usual, a warning red light flashing in his mind, Sherlock stalks through the flat, glancing into the sitting room but finding no evidence of John there.

He stops dead in the doorway to their bedroom, though, fear clutching at his heart and stopping his breathing. Something's wrong. Something was seriously wrong when John left the flat earlier that morning.

Their bed is still unmade.

John _never_ leaves their bed unmade. He's tried teaching Sherlock 'the correct' way to make the bed- all straight lines and neat, crisp corners- but Sherlock always deletes the information and John, despairing, just does it himself because it's easier.

Except this morning, for some reason, he hadn't.

It's a small thing, probably pointless, but to Sherlock it's as if John's left a handwritten note detailing his own kidnapping. Something isn't right. He knows it with absolute certainty.

Sherlock whips out his mobile, on the verge of texting John, when he catches the scent. It's faint, over an hour or so old, but there, still discernible. Panic skitters up his spine at the smell of fear, acrid and choking on the back of his tongue. John's scent, usually soothing and nice with just the barest hint of danger, is laced with it. It almost overrides his natural smell, fear and distress and, oddly enough, shame.

Sherlock, sniffing agitatedly, follows the fading scent to the loo, carefully pushing the door open and staring at all the evidence that meets his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

John isn't surprised when a sleek black car with heavily tinted windows glides to a stop at the curb beside him. He pretends to ignore it, walking past and not even glancing at it. He doesn't need or want Mycroft's help. He'd been making his own slow, meandering way back to Baker Street at his own pace, taking the long way from the park, wanting to walk off the excess tension and try and compose something vaguely coherent to say, to explain the situation, before he sees Sherlock.

John is heartily ashamed of himself and the meltdown he'd had earlier over the test. It'd been such a stereotypical _Omega_ way to act, he thinks disgustedly, grimacing at the memory of the way he'd panicked, bolting from the flat like a frightened deer. Not thinking clearly. Letting his emotions rule and flying off the handle. He doesn't want anyone to _ever_ know he behaved in such an irrational way. Shame burns, hot and gnawing, in his gut that he'd let himself act like that.

The few hours he's spent at the park have helped clear his head, though. Helped him see how unreasonable he was being and John's made a plan- he's going back to the flat, make he and Sherlock a cuppa, and sit down and talk about this situation and what they'd going to do about it like rational adults. Not like…like a scared Omega, witless and in need of protection. The very idea makes John shudder in revulsion.

He keeps stoically walking and hears the purr of the car's engine as it starts up, following behind him down the street at a slow crawl. John grits his teeth, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. It seems Mycroft won't be put off so easily. The pompous arsehole never is.

"_What_?" John asks, spinning around and glaring at the window of the car where he assumes Mycroft is sitting.

There's no answer. No smooth glide of the window lowering, just the blank blackness of the bulletproof glass.

"What do you want? Hm? I'm in no mood for your bloody theatrics, Mycroft." John shouts before noticing a mother pull her child closer to her, away from John, as they hurry past him on the sidewalk. John glances up and down the street, noticing a few more people staring oddly at him, and huffs an aggravated breath. Knowing there's nothing for it- Mycroft will just keep following him if he refuses- he wrenches the backdoor open, folding himself into the backseat and slamming the door, glaring at the arrogant tosser across from him.

"_What_?"

"Good afternoon to you as well, John." Mycroft simpers, smiling condescendingly as he signals for the driver to move on.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" John asks as the car merges seamlessly into traffic, voice clipped, wanting this meeting over and done with. "I've not really got time to play kidnap victim with you today."

"Perish the thought." Mycroft folds his hands in his lap, looking unbearably smug. "Can't I simply want to see you? You are bonded to my brother, after all. We're practically…in-laws."

John raises his eyebrows, incredulous, and Mycroft's smile melts from his face.

"I thought you might appreciate a ride back to Baker Street. Someone in your condition shouldn't be exerting themselves."

"Someone in my condition?"

Mycroft looks even smugger- if such a thing is possible. "Yes. I wouldn't want any harm to come to my future niece or nephew by you carelessly walking around London without protection."

John wearily closes his eyes, jaw tightening until it feels as if he'll break something to keep from telling Mycroft to fuck the hell off_. Of course_ Mycroft bloody knows. John's not told a single soul and it's still too early days yet for his scent to have changed. Nothing should have given him away. But Mycroft knows. Brilliant.

"Keep your bloody cameras out of our flat-"

"I understand you've not had a proper lunch- a doughnut and coffee in the park is hardly sufficient or nutritious- and the meager breakfast you consumed was hours ago. Shall I have the car stop somewhere for you?"

_This_ is what John can't stand: everyone knowing what's best for him and treating him as if he's made of fucking glass. It's going to drive him crazy by the end. "Someone in your condition" _my arse_, he thinks scornfully. He's already gearing up for the inevitable fight with Sherlock when the Alpha tells him it's now too dangerous for John to go to crime scenes with him.

"I'm not hungry." John snaps, watching the busy streets of London flash past and hoping they reach 221B soon.

"Tell me- how did Sherlock take the news of your happy announcement?" Mycroft's unctuous voice breaks in on John's angry thoughts and he doesn't even spare a glance for his bondmate's brother.

"Go fuck yourself."

"Can I assume from that incredibly verbose statement you haven't told him yet?"

John doesn't answer the bogusly shocked question and he can practically feel the perverse pleasure at the situation (even though Mycroft would deny it) radiating from Mycroft's side of the car. He's getting a kick out of all this and John knows it's the only reason he bothered driving halfway across London to give John a ride. It wasn't out of uncharacteristic compassion. He wanted a front row seat to the spectacle.

John braces himself for more questions, ready to fire back with some of his own, but Mycroft seems to be done needling him for the moment and lets the silence sit between them, unbroken.

Which is, in some ways, worse.

It starts slowly as the minutes stretch endlessly and they seemingly get no closer to Baker Street. John's teeth set on edge. The hairs at the back of his neck stand at attention. His muscles quiver in a fight-or-flight response and he keeps glancing at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye.

It's the lack of scent. Mycroft never smells like…anything. Not Omega. Not Alpha. Not Beta. Nothing. It's unnatural and always makes John feel disconcerted. It makes everyone who comes into contact with Mycroft feel tripped-up, flustered, and wary. It's part of what makes him so very threatening and strange.

John's nose twitches, trying to pick up on anything. Even if he were a Beta, Mycroft should have a scent. Something. As always, though, there's nothing. John had once asked Sherlock, in a quiet moment during one of his heats, about it. Sherlock had hesitated, looking uncomfortable.

"Mycroft is an Omega." He'd admitted and John had heard the 'but' inherent in his voice. "He takes suppressants."

"Oh…well, that's….not so bad." John had said, his fears that unfortunate injuries or some disease had been the cause laid to rest. "Doesn't explain why his scent-"

"I believe he takes them for the same reasons you _refused_ to keep taking them." Sherlock explained and it'd taken John a moment to understand what Sherlock meant, but when he had, he'd been…unsettled. Even more so than before.

So he understands now, _why_ Mycroft doesn't have a scent but the _reasoning_ behind it…John will never understand. And it never stops him trying to scent the air, trying to pull some sort of smell from the man in front of him other than the inert blandness. He doesn't know why, but it bothers him.

"Thanks for the ride." John grunts when the car finally pulls up in front of 221B. He throws open the door with a sweeping sense of relief.

"It was good to see you, John. Give Sherlock my happiest congratulations- when you tell him, that is. I'm sure Mummy will be ever so-"

John slams the car door, not bothering to listen to the rest of Mycroft's condescending speech. He rolls his shoulders as he strides to the front door, shutting it quietly behind him and taking a brief moment at the bottom of the stairs to calm down, a huge lump lodging in his throat at the enormity of the situation he's in.

He climbs the stairs with trepidation and pauses in the sitting room door. Sherlock is sat in his chair, head bent over a book, and doesn't look up when John comes in.

Okay then.

So. Right. Conversation. John glances around, not sure how to start this.

Maybe it'd go over better with tea. That'd been his original plan.

He doesn't bother asking Sherlock if he wants a cuppa, just puts the kettle on and goes about finding clean mugs-

"You're not supposed to have caffeine."

John takes down two mismatched mugs, peering inside to make sure there's nothing disgusting stuck to the bottoms, and rummages for the tea bags. "What?"

"It could potentially increase the risk of miscarriage and acts as a diuretic so key nutrients are lost before they are properly absorbed by the fetus. It says so on the internet, although there's some debate as to how much is _too much_ caffeine." Sherlock rattles off, laying aside his book and reaching for John's laptop, seemingly unaware of John, frozen like a statue in the kitchen. "It says it _may_ be ok to have one or two cups but I thought…well, we wouldn't want to risk it. I've already researched the best brands of caffeine-free tea and I think you'll be able to choose something from the list you'll find suitable. I know you hate drinking tea without caffeine- even though it's all in your head, John- but I'll do the same and I know you'll want to do the right thing but it's probably slipped your mind at the moment. There's so much to consider after all."

John walks stiffly, on wooden legs, into the sitting room, heart thudding in his chest, listening to Sherlock breathlessly recite everything he's learned. Sherlock takes a shuddery inhale and keeps talking.

"I've composed a detailed list of everything we'll need to do in order to prepare the flat, divided by room, and written up a brief time schedule of when we should get each room accomplished before it's time for your delivery. I'm basing these calculations on the assumption you became pregnant during your last heat- obviously, when else would it have happened?" Sherlock laughs self-deprecatingly but it's a choked, almost hysterical sound and John's moving to his side before he even consciously thinks about it.

"Sherlock-"

"You hid it from me."

John draws up short at Sherlock's soft accusation. "Uh. Yes. I did. I was…only for a little while." John admits, feeling bad but knowing it won't do any good lying to Sherlock about it. He obviously found the test in the loo and John experiences a brief irritation that both Sherlock _and_ Mycroft knew he was pregnant before he was ready to tell anyone.

"Is it…because…" Sherlock's throat works agitatedly, as if he can't force himself to say the words. His eyes dart frantically around the flat, unable to settle in one place very long, and his fingers twist atop John's keyboard. "I'll be a good Alpha, John. I promise." He finally says in a small voice, almost pleading, and it breaks John's heart.

"Sherlock, that's not-"

"I'll stop smoking. For real this time. I won't do experiments- or any _dangerous_ ones. I'll be careful if I have to do them and- and I'll clean the flat. I'll keep the flat so clean you could eat off any surface you want." Sherlock sounds more panicked and desperate with each word, as if he's trying to convince John to stay with him, as if, after everything they've been through, John has one foot already out the door.

"Sherlock, stop. Just. _Stop_. None of that…that's not why I tried to hide it. All right?" John tugs Sherlock up and out of his chair and into his arms. He pushes Sherlock's face to his neck, almost forcing him to start scenting him, and Sherlock takes a deep breath, as if he's trying to suck all the oxygen from the room, and lets out a gusty, moist sigh against John's skin. Some of the tension eases from his lean frame but he's still practically vibrating against John.

"I know you'll be a good Alpha. I know it. You'll be fucking fantastic." John murmurs soothingly, taking a few much needed moments to think of what he wants to say, and how he wants to say it. He's never good with these thing but he's the one who's fucked up, who's made Sherlock- his wonderful, caring, incredibly supportive Alpha- feel like this, as if he's unworthy. As if Sherlock would _ever_ be unworthy. Guilt claws at John until he almost can't stand it.

"Sherlock…You'll be great. You'll be the crazy, overprotective Alpha who won't let their kid get away with anything…but is the softest, most caring, loveliest person they'll ever have in their lives. You'll be great. I know you will."

Sherlock takes another gulp of air, nose running along John's bond bite, and John tilts his head to the side, giving him better access, pressing him closer. Sherlock shudders, hands gripping onto John's clothes, anchoring the shorter man to him and John relaxes as Sherlock breathes steadily against his skin. He strokes through Sherlock's curls, feeling the tension drain from his body the longer they stand together and he presses a kiss against Sherlock's shoulder.

"I'm sorry I tried hiding it from you. I didn't think… but I'm not worried about _you_ being good enough or anything…I just…it was a lot to take in all at once and I…"

Sherlock takes one more inhale, tickling John's neck, before stepping back. He looks calmer and the knot in John's chest loosens.

"You don't think you'll be a good enough Omega."

Sherlock says it as if it's the most ridiculous revelation he's ever had, which makes John feel defensive, as if he's being stupid when he knows with almost absolute certainty he's not. He pulls away, running his fingers through his hair agitatedly.

"I don't want to talk about it. I just…really don't right now, Sherlock. Not yet." The "_please"_ is unspoken but John knows Sherlock picks up on it. His brows draw together, obviously displeased, but he finally nods, doesn't press the issue, and John relaxes, putting off the inevitable conversation for the time being.

"So…what now?" Sherlock asks, biting his lip and turning back to his laptop and the myriad of books spread around his chair which John can now see are all baby-related in some way. He smiles, wondering about the curious looks Sherlock got at the bookshop when he purchased all those. "I assume you're more knowledgeable about these things than I am."

"What- you're not an expert after spending all afternoon Googling Omega reproduction?" John teases, trying to lighten the mood and Sherlock chuckles. "Well, first we need to get it confirmed. I'll take a blood test tomorrow and make sure I actually am and then…we'll go from there."

"Hmm." Sherlock steps closer again, nosing at John's neck, breath huffing out along his skin and John feels a small beat of desire spark in the pit of his stomach. "You already smell a bit different."

"It's your imagination." John closes his eyes and tips his head back as Sherlock licks at his skin, tugging at his earlobe with his teeth. He can already feel Sherlock, hard, against his hip and he's not sure if it's because they've just had something of a row and he wants make-up sex or if the idea of John being...being _bred_ has turned him on. John hopes it's the former but, as Sherlock frots against him and his own cock gets harder, he doesn't bother finding out. "An Omega's scent doesn't start changing until after their first missed heat...and I'm weeks from that."

"Mmmm." Sherlock's fingers work at the buttons of John's shirt, peeling it open, and he nips along his collarbone. "Take me to bed, John. Please?"

"You just want to scent me." John accuses without any heat, smiling when Sherlock doesn't protest, just snorts against John's skin which probably smells all wrong after his being away from the flat all day. He knows how his Alpha feels about John smelling like anything other than him and usually, John would dismiss it for the possessiveness that it is. But today…well, he sort of needs the comfort it brings too.

John threads their fingers together, pulling Sherlock down for a quick kiss, before tugging him toward the bedroom.

* * *

**Quick note: I won't be writing about John's pregnancy for a while (though I will take prompts on my Tumblr- that story will get written.) My next project (which will be posted in a few weeks) is a prequel to everything that has happened so far in this series. It will show how Sherlock and John got together and all the obstacles they had to overcome before that happened. :)**


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